Biking for the Sheer Pain of It

ON a sunny morning last March, we were skimming across the central Florida landscape at 21 miles an hour. The 10 of us were moving along in two parallel files of five. I was trying hard not to stare at the wheel a foot or so in front of mine. I remembered what Mike Walden had said: Keep your eyes up and on the road ahead. Rely on your peripheral vision to keep from running over the fellow in front of you.

I had come to the Walden School of Cycling to get a taste of bicycle racing. Mike Walden holds his school from February into April, in weekly segments at Camp Challenge, a youngsters' summer camp in Mount Plymouth, about 20 miles north of Orlando. There were 85 of us the week I went, ranging in age from college kids to two men in their 70's. Most campers were in their 30's; men outnumbered women six to one.

On this first morning, we were learning to ride in pace lines and being taught a fundamental truth: The cyclist's adversary is wind resistance. It is 25 to 30 percent easier to ride on someone else's tail than to cut through the air yourself. In a tight file of riders, the lead rider does the heavy lifting, pushing the air out of the way. The riders behind him benefit from his shelter.

That is elementary aerodynamics, but it is scary riding if you've never done it. The Walden Cycling School says it teaches basics and, along with a lot of other things, it taught me how to ride in a pace line without killing the other riders or myself.

About half the Walden campers actually race and almost all were more than occasional cyclists. (Frankie, a bicycle messenger from Richmond, said he did 50 miles a day up and down its hills.) For an office potato like me, one of the week's pleasures was being among so many people who felt so fit. Several were aerobics instructors. Others do triathlons or biathlons. More than a score were Cat Fours, the beginning rung on the four-category licensing of amateur bicycle racers in this country. Almost everyone rode lightweight racing bikes, with 10 or 12 or 14 gears.

A handful of riders were "randonneurs" (from the French for "ramble"), long-distance cyclists whose sport is to pedal 600 kilometers (375 miles) within a 40-hour limit. They were getting in shape for the centennial running of Paris-Brest-Paris, a 1,200-kilo meter event that requires doing the distance in less than 90 hours.

At 53, I was a middle-aged rookie who had gotten hooked on biking a year or so earlier. I had cycled regularly all summer and crowned that effort with two "centuries" -- 100-mile rides -- in September. In 1990, I probably biked 1,200 miles, plus another 6,000 indoors on an exercise bike. And I had gotten a glimpse into bicycle racing, a hugely popular sport in Europe, where the Tour de France excites as much interest as our World Series. I had discovered a new world in the pages of such magazines as Bicycling, Winning, and Velo News.

Mike Walden, a husky man of 74, has coached cycling for decades at a championship level. His Schwinn Wolverine Sports Club in Royal Oak, Mich., a suburb of Detroit, has produced more than 120 national champions, three world champions and 10 Olympic riders. One of its alumni, Frankie Andreu, rides on the European pro circuit.

Mr. Walden is known as ornery, a man with emphatic and sometimes maverick views on everything from digestion and conditioning to how to take a corner. (Keep pedaling, don't coast; lean your body into the corner, but try to hold your bike upright.) While he no longer runs the camp, he hovers, he listens, he gives counsel. The first evening he showed us a way to lace shoes so that if a lace broke in a race it wouldn't hamper the rider by coming loose. I race only in fantasy, but I wouldn't think of lacing my cycling shoes any other way.

The Walden staff, nearly 20 strong, was made up of enthusiastic competition riders from the Wolverine Club. During the day, they shepherded us along the roads, nudging and coaching as they went. In the evening, they gave chalk talks, or blackboard lectures. Racers like Ray Dybowski, Mark St. John, Mike Walters, Jose Alcala and Cyndi Hart lectured on technique and strategy; how to corner, how to ride in a pace line, how to climb, how to train, what to eat, when to sprint, how to protect your wheel.

Dale Hughes, the Walden camp director, joked off-handedly that the camp's fees go only for room and board -- the cycling instruction is free, a labor of love. Maybe that's not literally true, but it's hard to imagine a cheaper week in Florida. The week-long course was only $315, including transportation to and from the Orlando airport. Camp Challenge included a small swimming pool (that almost nobody used), a basketball court (ditto) and not much more. The dining room doubled as a lecture hall. It is a no-frills operation.

The accommodations, in bungalows, eight or nine to a room, dormitory style, were clean but bare, with one bathroom, with shower, to each room. We brought bedding and towels and lived out of suitcases. The pressure on the bathroom was relieved when some of us discovered an underused shower room across the courtyard. Everyone generally accepted the Spartan existence with good grace. Roommates were luck of the draw. One fellow in our bunch bent your ear so incessantly that he finally made the room uninhabitable.

The food, served up by a friendly kitchen staff, was plain but plentiful, not notably tasty -- what you might expect at a kids' summer camp. The menu was heavy on carbohydrates, fruits, cereals, salads, bread, pasta, and we piled our plates. No one wanted to run out of gas on the road. When we fixed our own sandwiches for midday lunch, it was basics like tuna fish salad and P.B.J.'s.

After a round of exercises and breakfast, we formed in groups each morning and pedaled about eight miles to the camp's "skill course." The course was laid out on the empty streets of an aborted real estate development. In a deserted cul-de-sac, we rode around and around in a tight circle, practicing how to take a corner. On another street was the plunger run: The idea was to weave quickly through a line of bathroom plungers, using body English to slip the bike left and right. In a third location, we were instructed in time trial starts. (In a time trial, the rider races by himself against the clock.)

We spent our hours cycling in clusters along the county roads and byways around Mount Plymouth and Sorrento and Mount Dora, practicing our pace line. The lead rider pumps hard for a short while, then falls off to the right and slows down, allowing the next rider in line to take the lead. That rider pumps hard, then he too drops to the right and slows, giving the rider behind him the lead.

An error has occurred. Please try again later.

You are already subscribed to this email.

As novices, we strained to maintain our speed and keep the file tight. We struggled up hills and bent against the wind and fought fatigue. Sometimes things clicked and, as you moved through the rotation, taking your turn at the lead, you felt part of a smoothly efficient machine skimming down the road.

Cyclists become very attuned to elevation. The central Florida terrain, mostly flat, was rolling enough to require some hard pulls. And where the land was open and level, the wind came sweeping across, friend or foe, depending on its direction. The camp had found one road, known as Thrill Hill, that fell off steeply into a valley, and we cycled there on Thursday to practice hill climbing. As we dropped into the valley, we laid off the brakes and swooped to speeds in the low 40's.

The backdrop was exurbia. There were cattle pastures, some horses, a few processing plants, a scattering of ranch-style homes on spacious lots, an occasional development, and clumps of smaller houses at crossroads communities. Yet on Highway 46 I saw Bear Crossing signs.

I spent the first two days hanging on. Initially I was classed with a group of men who were mostly younger, stronger or more experienced. The first day, rolling along at 16 to 22 miles an hour, we did 53 miles. Our leader, T. J. Hill, a trim retiree in his late 50's, led us up and down a patchwork of county roads. (He told us he cut Monday's run short; too many of us were fading.) The morning went fine, but I wilted in the afternoon.

I NOW see that I couldn't spin fast enough. To keep the pace, you either have to pedal fast or move into a higher, and harder, gear. Pushing the higher gear is more exhausting. After a couple of hours, your thighs are lifeless and burning. I had pounded the exercise bike all winter, but my legs cried uncle.

On Tuesday, a raw, windy day, there was a reshuffle, and some riders were moved to faster groups and others to weaker ones. The two 70-year-olds were given a leader of their own. I stayed with T. J.'s group but fell into the same pattern, strong at the beginning, fading and falling behind at the end. That evening I began to dread a third day of hanging on, but I didn't cherish the prospect of being demoted to the old men's group.

The next morning they did move me down a notch but, to my relief, not to the bottom rung. I joined Cyndi Hart's squad, a relaxed assemblage of riders who had playfully organized themselves as a medieval court. Cyndi, a cheerful young woman with a long pigtail, was queen, and she reigned over knights and squires and ladies in waiting. They dubbed me Friar Fred. At various times Cyndi called on me for a blessing. The group, mostly women, included some accomplished riders. Lisa, trim and strong, had done the Race Across Missouri. She was one of the randonneurs getting in shape for Paris-Brest-Paris.

The Walden brochure had said we would ride 200 to 400 miles during the week. I did only 230 miles: 53 on Monday, 38 on Tuesday, 51 on Wednesday, 35 on Thursday, and another 53 on a rain-shortened Friday. As cycling goes, these are not great distances, but done fast, early in the season, they weren't that bad. The best riders went a lot farther.

On Monday and Wednesday, we were on our bikes from 9:30 to 2:30 or 3, with a picnic break for lunch. On Tuesday and Thursday, we rode all morning but had the afternoons off. On Friday the plan was to go all day on the bikes, eating lunch as we moved, but rain threw that into a hat. The schedule had left Tuesday and Thursday open after lunch so people could go to Daytona or south to Disney World. I opted not to go and found myself with dead time. In a week's immersion in serious cycling, my only real complaint was when they gave us a breather.

IF YOU PEDAL

The Walden School of Cycling has scheduled 11 one-week sessions for next year, from Feb. 2 through April 19. The cost has risen to $345; sessions are limited to 75 cyclists each, and reservations, with a $100 deposit, are essential. For people who have attended before, go for more than one week, or go in a group of four or more, there is a $50 discount. For an additional $20, the camp offers transportation to and from the Orlando airport.

Walden houses men and women in separate buildings, but it has a few rooms for couples. The camp has washers and dryers. Central Florida in mid-March was pleasantly warm and bug-free.

Some people use the camp to start their cycling season, but it is better to show up in shape, with 200 to 400 miles already in your legs. Next year Walden is adding an advanced level of instruction, limited to riders who have completed the first level. For this, 1,000 miles of advance riding is recommended.

Participants take their own bicycles. Airlines charge extra to carry a bike (at Delta, $30 each way). Some airlines provide shipping cartons, which require taking the bike apart. You can buy special carry cases, but they are expensive and don't always protect the bike from rough handling.